


Dusk and Dawn Devouring

by MirabilisMage



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirabilisMage/pseuds/MirabilisMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the daylight, their differences are obvious. But at dusk, those differences melt away and two bodies converge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusk and Dawn Devouring

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: M for sexual situations (M!Hawke/Merrill). PWP.

This is a story of opposites.

This is a story of conflict.

Of the past and of the future.  
Of what one must face in the brightest daylight, in the darkest moon shadow.

At dawn and at dusk, the opposites are not so pronounced. Conflict ends, and those differences merge. In the half-light, in the waning light, in the beginning light, it is not a matter of human and elf, mage and non-mage, tall and short, hard and soft, male and female. In the dappled light, the mottled light, the sleepy light, it is simply a matter of two merging into one.

The sun, the moon, they show what must be: a battling Champion, an outcast elf. One looking for a better future, one seeking to preserve the past. By day, one must act, by night, one must rest, but at those half times, those are the times for self, a time to put duty aside.

Merrill never feels whole, forever torn by her duties to herself, her clan, her people.

Hawke never feels pieces, as he must keep an entire whole together: friends, family, city.

Separation and unity is but another difference that simply melts away.

Just past the city walls, just past the Viscount’s gardens, there is a small patch of free land. Land unclaimed by Kirkwall, the Dalish, the Darkspawn, or bandits. Just a small parcel with grass and trees and clean air. Merrill found it by accident, as she has found many things. It is a place to breathe, a place to think, a place to love.

She shyly asks him one afternoon, “Will you join me? We could have a picnic! I just learned that word. I don’t think I have a basket, though. But I have a bag. I can make some bread. Could you bring some cheese?”

He smiles at her. “Of course, Merrill.”

So often Merrill follows him, but this day, she leads the way. He rolls out a blanket, and she sets out Elven traveling gear: sturdy dishes and solid snacks. They talked about the past, about the past few years in Kirkwall, about their young lives in Fereldan, about the past of their peoples. For that last topic, Merrill more so than Hawke. For that last topic, Merill can speak articulately and animatedly for hours. Her focus is clear; she does not stumble or mumble or apologize. The lilt of her voice is bewitching.

During the golden hour of sunlight, as the rays still stream through the clouds and leaves, even as the sun itself sinks, the pair should pack up. The pair should head home. But Hawke leans in close, and Merrill leans in too. He reaches out, closing the distance, tracing her jaw, using her chin to guide her, until they unite and kiss.

Hawke’s brain tries to process a thought, it tries to worry him: What will Bethany, or Aveline, or Varric think? But the softness of Merrill’s lips cancels that thought.

Merrill’s brain, too, tries to guilt her, to make her stop. What will the others think? The clan, the Keeper? But a sadder, wiser part reminds her that those are people who do not understand her, who effectively shun her. And Hawke? Hawke never has.

Merrill leans into the kiss, placing her right hand on Hawke’s chest, and runs the fingers of her left through his short hair. Hawke cannot be sure of his speed, of the time, if he is moving quickly or slowly. He cups her face, a hand on each side, fingers idly tracing tattoos. They both pause for tiny breaths, and then Hawke kisses Merrill deeply, lips parting, tongues darting.

As he leans forward, Merrill moves her hand down and over his chest. She finally breaks the kiss, looking away for a moment. “I’ve wanted to. . .for a long time, but. . .” Hawke takes her hand, holding it to his heart. He is not sure what to say; it is too early (right?) to declare love or fidelity. “Merrill,” he says, “you’re beautiful.” It may not be the right thing or the best thing to say, but it is a true thing. She smiles.

Hawke draws her to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around her. In that clearing, framed by brown bark and green leaves and airy wisps, what they are is laid bare. Slender, fragile elf, commander of blood magic, seeker of an elusive past. Muscled male warrior, protector of an unknown future. But as the golden hour ends, as the dusk devours the sun, those differences melt into two bodies. Those differences melt into shared need: to be touched, to be loved, to be understood if only for a moment.

She nimbly shifts in his grasps, so that her legs wind around his waist. He paws at her back, sometimes scratching, sometimes rubbing, sometimes finger tips, sometimes palms. She rubs her hands through his hair, down his neck, and back again. Hawke starts again at her mouth, but quickly shifts to kissing her jawline, and then her neck. He nibbles, then bites harder as she gasps. She pushes against him, writhing in his lap.

Neither outfit is the easiest to remove; each fumbles with the other’s buckles and straps. But all that is needed is just a little skin, and then a little more. Only one kiss at a time can be planted. Each taste is tantalizing. Each touch a tease.

The sun sinks lower in the horizon. Hawke gently pushes Merrill onto her back. She pulls him close, running her hands down his back, his arms, his chest. Kissing his mouth, kissing his neck. Balancing on his left arm, Hawke grazes one nipple, then another, smiling as the skin reacts and crinkles. His fingers draw circles, then tug, then flick, then back to circles. He moves his hand lower, dipping between her legs, feeling the wetness there, gently circling and tugging. Merrill arches her back and returns in kind, reaching for him, for his hardness.

Slowly he enters her. Warrior training is helpful here: sex is about abandoning oneself, yet it also requires great focus. Pleasure is not as pleasurable if it is one-sided. So Hawke focuses on his body, his thrusts, while watching hers, meeting her thrusts, listening to her moans. He tests. Which is better, fingers on her clitoris or her nipples? A kiss on her mouth or a nibble on her neck?

Merrill, too, tries to strike a balance between her own body and his. She loves the feel of his chest, of his abs and fine flesh, yet a rough hand in his hair, tugging, sparks a strong reaction, a moan, a harder thrust. She takes control, for a moment, placing her hand between them, pushing Hawke’s aside. She has spent so much time alone, she knows the way. Hawke kisses her as she uses her fingers, drawing forth a blooming orgasm, small tendrils that grow outwards, reaching past her body and to Hawke, and with a final thrust, his orgasm reaches full bloom, too, a burst of – everything.

As the pant, and the darkness falls, their bodies are quiet and their minds are busy. What now? What next? When is the next full meeting in the in-between? Must they wait for dawn?


End file.
